Chapter Two-1
2154 Words
Chapter Two
I sit alone at a small table in the back of Fission. This is my third day at the restaurant, and the first I'll be allowed to cook. It's Thursday morning, and the first challenge for the weekend special will start in half an hour.
I've discovered I like to come in early and enjoy a pot of coffee before work begins. It gives me time to settle in and feel comfortable in the restaurant I still find a bit intimidating. Over the past two days, I managed to follow all of Paul's instructions and complete the chores assigned to me with a happy disposition. Tuesday, I shadowed Kinley, the head-waitress. I made polite conversation with the customers, carried her trays, and filled her drink orders. When we arrived yesterday, Jenny, Robbs, and I were informed we would be the cleaning crew for the day. Jenny and I bussed tables, washed dishes, and cleaned the bathrooms, all the while maintaining a pleasant, cheerful attitude. Robbs begrudgingly completed the same tasks, letting everyone in the restaurant know by his attitude that he felt he was above doing the scut work.
I hope my positive attitude, especially compared to Robbs' petulant one, is the reason Paul seems drawn to me. Over the last two days, I caught him gazing in my direction several times. He even helped me clean the ladies' room yesterday. He said as the boss, he believes he should never ask an employee to do something he's not willing to do himself. While that's a wonderful philosophy, I still feel like there's more to the attention he's giving me than professional admiration.
As I sip my coffee, I wonder about today's cooking challenge. I am confident in my skills, but I haven't seen Jenny or Robbs cook yet. For all I know, they are better than I am. I check the time on my phone just as Jenny walks through the front door. She sees me sitting at the back table, grabs a coffee mug from behind the bar, and joins me.
“Good morning,” she greets me brightly. “Are you ready for the challenge?”
“I hope so,” I answer with a nervous grin. “Paul said these challenges will be specific. I wonder what we'll be doing today.”
“I don't know. I must say, the way this competition is set up reminds me of all of those cooking shows on television. I keep expecting a cameraman to pop up any second.”
“That's exactly what I think!” I agree with a laugh. “I admit, culinary reality TV is one of my few guilty pleasures. I watch all of them.”
“Me too!” Jenny replies. “I'd love to be on one someday... or judge one.”
“Maybe one day we'll do one together.” I don't make friends easily, but I like Jenny. She seems kind, honest, and genuine.
“My parents would just die if I end up on television,” Jenny says. “They're incredibly conservative. I was never allowed to watch anything but the public access channels. And even then, they had to approve each show before I watched it.”
“That sounds rough,” I respond uncomfortably. I know what's coming next, and I dread it.
“What are your parents like?” Jenny asks.
This is a common question, and one I never answer honestly. “They were great,” I answer quickly. “But they passed away when I was sixteen. I've been on my own ever since.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that,” Jenny quickly replies. She can sense I am uncomfortable and pulls out her cell phone. “I'm going to take advantage of these last few minutes and study.”
I know this is her way of giving me some space, and I appreciate it. One thing I said to Jenny was true. I've been on my own since I was sixteen years old. Everything else was a lie. My parents weren't the best people, and they aren't dead... at least, not that I know of. My earliest memories with them are happy ones, but everything changed when I was around nine years old. That's when my father, a once-successful salesman, lost his job at the company he'd been with for twenty years. Instead of picking himself up and finding a new job, my father drowned his depression in drugs and alcohol. And instead of putting her foot down or leaving him, my mother joined him in his addictions.
After their savings ran out, my parents started selling drugs to pay for their habits. Between my ninth and sixteenth birthday, we moved fourteen times. Each new place was smaller and dirtier than the last, and I was usually left to fend for myself. When I was sixteen, I arrived home from school one day to find my parents had moved without me. The note they left behind is still tucked away in a box in a far corner of one of my closets. Dearest Kiara, You'll be better off without us. One day you'll understand.
I have no siblings and both sets of my grandparents died before I was born—that note was the end of my family. I shamefully explained my situation to the landlord, and he let me stay in the apartment until I graduated from high school. I worked two jobs to pay the rent and utilities, and I've become quite adept at taking care of myself. I'm not ashamed of my past, but it's not something I like to talk about, and I'm relieved Jenny isn't pushing the subject.
“I hope we're not required to make a dessert,” Jenny says from across the table. “I haven't mastered pastries yet.”
“I doubt it,” I assure her. “The winning dish is going to be one of the weekend specials, so I'm assuming we'll be doing entrees.”
“I hope so.” She sighs. “I admit, I'm nervous.”
“I am too,” I agree as I refill each of our coffee mugs.
“If I don't win, I hope you do,” Jenny says. “Robbs is a total a*s. I wish we could vote him off the island.”
“That would make life easier,” I reply. As we joke, Robbs walks in the front door. He sees us immediately and joins us at the table.
“Good morning, ladies,” he says with an arrogant grin. “Are you ready for the first of those a*s kickings I promised you?”
“Sure, Robbs.” Jenny smirks. “Give it your best shot. At the end of the day, we'll know who's got what it takes to be here.”
“Your trash talking could use some work, Jen.” Robbs smirks.
“I'd prefer if you didn't call me Jen, Robert,” Jenny retorts.
As they glare at each other, Paul emerges from the kitchen with a pile of black jackets over one arm.
“Good morning,” he greets us. “I hope you're all well rested and ready to get to work. There are three open stations in the kitchen. Today's assignment is fairly straightforward. You will each get a full hour to prepare an entrée. You must incorporate Latin cuisine with any other cuisines of your choosing. You're also required to incorporate at least one wood-fired element in your dish. At the end of the hour, you must present five professionally plated portions. Any questions?”
“No,” Jenny, Robbs, and I answer in unison.
“Great. I'll be moving around the stations watching you as you work. I'll be judging your techniques as well as your final product.” He pulls the jackets off of his arm as he speaks. “Before we step into the kitchen, I thought you all might like one of these.” He passes each of us a jacket adorned with the Fission logo and embroidered with our names. We pull them on eagerly, but there is no time to admire them... Paul turns and moves toward the kitchen, and we follow. I know the exact dish I want to make, and I'm raring to get started.
We step into the kitchen, and I see the three stations closest to the back of the room are cleared off for us.
“You'll get quick access to the pantry and walk-in,” Paul explains. “Chef Harrison has the grill fired up and ready, and he will taste your dishes today. You will also taste each other's dishes, not as a judge, but so you know what you're up against. Your knives are located at your stations, and your time starts now.”
Robbs and Jenny immediately rush to the walk-in, so I head for the pantry. I'm going to make green curry tamales, so I gather mesa, corn husks, curry paste, and an assortment of other Indian spices. I deposit my selections at my station and move to the now unoccupied walk-in. I grab a beautiful piece of lamb, and then return to my station to mix up my marinade. I want to use the grill twice, first to cook my meat and then to sear the outside of my finished tamales. I slice the lamb and toss it into the marinade before starting on my corn mixture.
The aromas of soy and ginger fill the air and I know at least one of my competitors is preparing an Asian-inspired dish. I'm tempted to peek at their progress, but I control the urge. It wouldn't be professional, and I can't spare the time to worry about what anyone else is doing. I finish my corn mixture and then spread it out across the corn husks. Paul comes to my station to observe and I do my best to pretend he isn't there, despite the fact my pulse races every time he looks at me.
“This is an interesting combination,” he says, glancing toward my marinating lamb. “I can't wait to taste it.”
“Yes, Chef,” I respond without looking up.
He leaves my station, and I decide I need a fresh element for my plate. A glance at the clock tells me I need to get my lamb on the grill, and I do it quickly. Chef Harrison stands watch over the fire to ensure we don't sabotage each other, so I leave the lamb and head back to the walk-in. I consider doing a Mexican street corn with Indian spices, but decide that would be too much corn on one plate. Instead, I grab fresh spinach, tomatoes, and tomatillos. I return to my station and chop the produce. I toss half of the tomatoes and tomatillos into a food processor and add chili and spices. With a quick whirl, my dipping sauce is ready. I can smell my lamb, and I rush to the grill to turn it. The meat is seared perfectly, and I'm happy with the progression of my dish.
I return to my station just as Paul approaches again. “Your knife skills are excellent, Chef,” he says with a wink.
My stomach flutters, and all I can do is nod. This is all part of the game. He's just trying to throw you off balance. Concentrate on the work.
I whisk up a quick vinaigrette with ginger, garlic, and a touch of black cumin. I retrieve my lamb from the grill, spread it evenly across the corn mixture, and then roll the tamales. Once I place them in the steamer, I return to the walk-in and grab a couple of kefir limes. I grate the zest into my vinaigrette, then slice them and add the juice. The salad is finished and the tamales are steaming, so I finally steal a moment to take in my surroundings.
Robbs is bent over his cutting board, painstakingly rolling out fresh tortillas. Jenny is standing over the grill, and Paul is next to her. They each let out a laugh, and I'm startled by how jealous I feel that Paul finds Jenny so damn amusing. He's your boss, I remind myself. Or at least, he will be, if everything goes right. And the only way to make that happen is to keep my head in the game.
“Fifteen minutes, ladies,” Robbs calls out. “I hope you're ready for disappointment.”
I turn toward Robbs' station and see he is sweating. I don't know if it's because of the heat in the kitchen or the stress of the competition, but I'm happy to see he's losing his composure a bit. I return to the pantry and select my plates. I grab kidney-shaped bowls for my salad to ensure the vinaigrette doesn't soak into the rest of my food. I return to the kitchen and gently poke one of the tamales. It feels firm, so I use tongs to retrieve them from the steamer basket.
I pause for a moment, trying to decide how I want to present my food. Traditionally, tamales are served in their husks, but that creates quite a mess for the diner, and if there's one thing I hate, it is trash on a plate. I decide to de-husk them, and do so carefully before transferring them to a platter. Paul approaches once more as I make my way to the grill.
“No husks?” he asks. “That's an interesting choice.”
“Yes, Chef,” I reply nervously. Damn it. I knew I should have left them on. To think, I'm going to be done in by f*****g corn husks.
- Writer
